


Imitating Life

by kristen999



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Introspection, M/M, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristen999/pseuds/kristen999
Summary: Steve isn’t sure how picking-up a paintbrush can help defeat the darkness, but he’s willing to try.





	Imitating Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sealie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/gifts).



> Warnings: Contains themes of depression.
> 
> A/N: Thank you to Gaelicspirit for the swift beta and all of her suggestions. :)
> 
> Inspired by Sealie on Tumblr.

***

Steve stared at the canvas, debating if he was too far away or too close to get the right perspective.

After five minutes of moving around, he sat on a chair to change the angle. Maybe if he looked at it _just so_ …. His mind was as blank as the woven linen in front of him.

Gripping the paintbrush, Steve rolled the handle between his fingers, trying to find the right balance. Was he even holding it correctly?

He pulled out his phone and typed: _What is the proper way to hold a paintbrush_ and found six YouTube videos. 

An hour later, he still hadn’t painted a damn thing. Steve tossed the brush onto the dining room table and walked away. 

***

Steve stood on the lanai, the waves lapping over his toes. His towel felt like a weight over his shoulder and his legs refused to budge. The ocean beckoned, but he didn’t take another step, the desire to go swimming dissipating with every second. 

He should turn around and wash the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, do laundry, or watch some Netflix.

Instead he padded back inside and ignored the TV. 

Steve headed upstairs, unsure what he planned to do when he reached the landing. He hated leaving all the chores untouched, but lacked the energy or the inclination to do anything about them.

***

Steve attended a free class on art fundamentals in the back of a coffee shop and listened to the instructor as she clicked the next slide to her presentation. 

“The color wheel is made up of three different types of colors: Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary….”

He focused, dissecting all the elements of the lecture, trying to isolate where exactly he’d failed. 

Studying color reminded Steve why he loved math. It was simple: learning one theory created the groundwork for the next. The principles were easy to digest and analyze, he just had to figure out how to play with them more. A faint sense of hope filled inside his chest.

“Monochromatic literally means one color,” the instructor continued with a new image. 

Color theory made sense. Steve could capture the ocean on canvas, play with the hues. The sea looked blue because it absorbed reds and yellows, the white light from the sun entering the water, reflecting aqua and turquoise. 

His heart pounded in excitement. He might paint something tonight and maybe bring to his next appointment; show his therapist that he was making progress.

***

Steve understood the ocean. He knew it an intimate level, having spent half his life under its depths, and could taste the salt on his lips when he closed his eyes.

He glared at the canvas, at the paints, at the proper way he held his brush. But nothing flowed, not a single spark of imagination, nothing but distance between him and what he was supposed to be creating.

Frustrated, he marched into his living room and slumped onto the sofa. Anger simmered inside his chest at his inability to achieve his goals, to make all the puzzle pieces fit. 

He stared at his walls, at the floor, at his hands. Steve rubbed the pad of his thumb over his calloused fingers. 

With a growl, Steve picked up the book from the coffee table that he’d bought that morning and flipped through the pages. He re-read the first sentence of chapter two again. _Understanding each section of color theory fully will help you understand its importance in art._

But he _did_ understand it—the science, the theories, the applications. 

So, why the hell couldn’t he make it any of work?

***

Steve’s stomach growled, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away from the grill. He stared at the burning charcoal, transfixed by the embers of orange, purple, and a hint of green at the edges.

Arms wrapped around his waist, Danny’s chin resting along his collarbone. “You want me to take over?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Because you know those hamburgers won’t cook themselves.”

“Sorry, I just….” But Steve didn’t know what he’d been thinking about.

Danny held Steve closer, pressing his lips against the back of Steve’s neck. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Steve wasn’t sure if Danny was talking about dinner or everything else.

***

He sat on the sofa in his doctor’s office answering Dr. Elliot’s questions, annoyed at showing up empty-handed.

“Steve, you don’t need to be an artist to make art—all you need to do is start somewhere.”

“I’ve tried.” Steve folded his arms across his chest. “I’m just not the artsy type. I….” He blew out a breath. “…it’s not my skill set.”

“Art doesn’t have to be good; it just has to be real. What draws me back again and again to my paintbrush is that when I hold it in my hands, no one can judge me—all that matters is what I’m feeling inside.”

Steve bit his bottom lip and shook his head, breathing hard through his nostrils. “I don’t know much about that either.”

“Then let the paintbrush show you.” Elliot gave him a kind smile. “Allow it to help you process what you can’t at the moment. Don’t over think it. This isn’t a puzzle to solve or a raid to plan. This is about relaxation.”

***

On most days, Steve woke up, got dressed and went to work on autopilot. He had a routine. But today it took several tries to even open his eyes. 

He stared up at the ceiling, getting lost in the pattern of the tiles, unaware of the time, or how long he’d been lying there. When he squeezed his eyes closed all he could see was….

Part of him wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear; part of him wondered how long he could get away with not moving. 

At some point, he got out of bed and made his way downstairs. He still didn’t know the time. At least he put on some sweat pants and an old t-shirt, forced his feet into a pair of old sneakers.

Steve didn’t glance over at the easel, the growing failure sitting silent and empty in the corner of his dining room. 

Instead, he forced himself to go outside take a walk, not caring in which direction he went.

***

Saturday night meant Danny would come over, taking over the house, complaining about the contents of Steve’s refrigerator, cooking for him. 

“I made potato soup and you will eat it.”

Stave smiled despite himself.

Danny always spent the night on the weekends; he’d stay every night if he could. If Steve had the energy. 

But Danny had Charlie and Grace, and Steve was very good at putting up walls and pushing people away, even those who fought the hardest to break through all his barriers. 

“There has to be something you like about painting?” Danny asked while they lay in bed together. He curled closer to Steve, rubbed a soothing hand over Steve’s arm, pressed his lips to his collarbone.

Steve shivered; a tendril of warmth from Danny’s touch battled the cold ghosting all over his skin. Steve snuggled closer to him. “I like the values.”

“What are those?”

“Value is the darkness or lightness of a color. Black and white.”

“Sounds kind of like life.”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does. Adding white produces a tint and adding black produces a shade....”

“Then why don’t you play around with that?” Danny started stroking Steve’s arm, burying his nose into Steve’s shoulder, muffling his voice. “Don’t try to paint _something_. Do whatever makes you feel.”

Steve shivered again. “That’s the problem; it doesn’t make me feel anything.”

“You need to add something to the canvas first, babe.”

“It seems like a waste of paint.”

“It’s not a waist if it allows you to experiment.” Danny swung his leg over Steve’s, intertwining their limbs, bringing them closer. “See what happens when you add and subtract color. Just give it a try.”

***

Pastel blue looked nice on his paint bristles, but came across cold when Steve applied several layers. It wasn’t supposed to make him feel like that; it was supposed to be calming. Serene. Make him relaxed. 

Throwing the paint brush down would mean defeat and Steve was sick and tired of feeling like an old discarded boot, of not being able to wake up and go to work without feeling like it was a fist-fight.

No, he wouldn’t toss his brush aside. Steve scanned the rest of his colors, dipping the brush into the red. 

He pressed the brush hard against the canvas, staining the cotton, bright, intense….

The ocean wasn’t red damn it. So, why was he trying to pain it that color?

Chest heaving, his breaths coming loud and fast, Steve threw his brush across the room, the brush smacking the far wall, splattering drops of paint all over the surface.

***

The color black haunted Steve the most. It absorbed everything around him, sucking away the light, eating away all other colors. 

Steve watched as the blackness seeped up through the joints in the floorboards and snaked out from dark corners and crevices of the room.

A voice inside his head told him to go outside. It sounded like Danny’s, so Steve opened the sliding glass door and forced his legs to move.

He looked at the flowers, at the yellows and oranges, rich and vibrant hues. Steve lifted his head up at the sunlight, watched a leaf twist in the wind, listened to it whisper as it drifted to the ground. 

He was still tired. 

It’d begun a while ago, like a veil over his skin, grey and cold. He watched the petals sway in the breeze, another wave of cold creeping inside his bones. It sat like November rain on his skin. Drop by drop by drop. At any other time he would have called Danny, asked for the warmth he needed to ward off the chill.

A cloud drifted across the sky, large enough to block the sun. 

Steve dropped into one of the chairs on the lanai, planning to remain in the cold, comfortably numb. But a tiny part of him told him to move, to get up and onto his feet, _now, sailor, now._

And wearily, he obeyed.

***

Steve glared at empty slate in front of him. Sticking his brush into a glob of black, he brushed it side to side, a long streak of nothing, of dark, of the clouds blocking the sun outside. Of how he felt when he’s all alone, running, swimming, sitting in the corner wondering why the hell everything felt so fucked up.

Stepping back, he stared at the canvas and for the first time in weeks, he knew what he was looking at.

***

Steve handed the painting to Dr. Elliott during their next session and sat on the sofa.

“This is very good, Steve.” Dr. Elliott set the canvas on the coffee table between them. “How did you feel when you did this?”

“Angry.”

“And how did you feel after you were done painting it?”

Slumping back into the cushions, Steve licked his lips. “Less angry.”

***

The next canvas was larger than the first. Steve clutched the brush between his fingers, starting with thick layers of blue. He added black next, enriching it with darker hues the way the sea reminded him before a violent storm. 

The waves weren’t perfect and for the most part, Steve didn’t really care. The waves were broken and distorted, but they felt right. They felt like him.

***

Steve returned home later than planned. He’d had another appointment with the governor, another check-in regarding current cases, to go over his latest medical evaluation. It’d actually been somewhat positive.

Danny’s car was parked outside and the scent of warm bread and spices filled the living room. Steve put his keys away and walked toward the kitchen and found Danny in the dining area, looking at several paintings Steve had left on the table. 

“Hey,” Steve greeted. 

“Hey.” Danny looked over at him, giving him a smile. He waved his hand over the prints. “These were lying around.”

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah?”

Danny frowned, his eyes darting from the paintings and back up toward Steve. He bit his bottom lip which meant he was frustrated, but didn’t know what to say. “What do I look like, an art critic?”

“Maybe. You’re both judgmental.” But Steve cracked a half smile. 

“That hurt, you know that?” Danny waved his hand again. “They’re good, babe, the colors are very…passionate. But they’re cool, it’s like….” He crossed and uncrossed his arms. “Are these from real storms? Like when you were a kid? Should I be worried about hurricanes, because I thought we didn’t get them here?”

“Hawaii usually doesn’t get hurricanes, and yes, I’ve seen a lot of storms. Mainly when I was aboard carriers. But these…,” Steve paused, searching for the right words. “This is how….”

“This is how you feel.” It was a statement, not a question. Danny watched him, his expression soft. 

Steve shifted his feet and looked at the anger spread all over the table. “Yeah, it is.”

Danny closed the distance between them and enveloped Steve into a massive hug, wrapping strong arms around Steve’s shoulders, holding him tight. “Keep painting, babe. Keep painting.”

*** 

Steve still didn’t know what he was doing and he didn’t like that. He should have a plan, a starting point. He began another seascape, with the shoreline this time. Dark, rocky sand creating a horizon.

His heartbeat sped up, sweat prickled at his skin as he stared at the wavy streaks, at how the beach took shape, floating in the middle of the canvas, without the sea, it was nothing, lost.

He picked black next, his go-to, because he was drawn to it. Maybe using black as the base was the wrong thing to do, it was hard to add blue once there were thick layers of black, but this was how he felt, it was…it was….

***

Steve sat on the edge of sofa, his knee bouncing as Dr. Elliot looked at the latest painting.

“What do you think this it is, Steve?”

“It’s a beach.”

“Steve….”

Steve looked away, his eyes taking in all the bookshelves, at pictures of family and friends, of other paintings on the walls, probably Elliott’s. He seemed to like portraits. 

“The last time you were here, you brought a painting you created when you felt angry.” Steve returned his focus toward his doctor, nodding along with his words. Dr. Elliott rested his hands on his knees. “How did you feel when you were painting this one?”

Steve glanced at the distorted shoreline, at the rolling sea of black, at the spots where he tried to go back and add some blue, give it some tone. “I felt, you know, emotional.” He cleared his throat. “Uncensored, I guess.”

“Uncensored is good. It means you’re expressing yourself without barriers, tapping into some energy that you normally don’t allow any release.”

Steve folded his arms, uncomfortable, feeling too exposed. There were only ten minutes left in the session. Dr. Elliott didn’t pry anything else out of him, but did ask that Steve return with another painting in a couple of weeks.

***

That night Steve unrolled the canvas and stretched it out onto the table. He really looked at it, at what he created when he wasn’t thinking, when he was just feeling.

And it hit him, the beach reflected an aspect of his life he’d failed to face; it was ugly. It was despair. It was pain.

***

His office had too much stuff; Steve needed to move some of the boxes around, get his desk in the corner. 

Danny helped move things into the storage under the house, clearing away space. Wiping a hand over his sweaty face, he peered up at Steve with a fond smile. “I gotta say, I never thought I’d be so happy to clean all this up.”

Steve rested his hands on his hips, surveying his new art studio space. “I think this will work.”

***

After Steve created a space for himself, he simply began painting. He made no attempt to define his process; he painted from pure emotion.

He still reached for black, still began with that color. This was the fourth of fifth seascape, but this time he painted giant waves, of frothy crests and dark still water-lines.

Steve became absorbed in the gesture of painting. For the first time, he was experiencing things in a new way. Breathing hard, Steve stood in front of his canvas and felt in control for the very first time, painting his ridiculous feelings. 

The water was crashing against the beach, smashing up against the rocky shore. It was raw power. It was a deeply intense and dying pain. 

***

Exhaustion still gnawed at Steve’s bones, made him go to sleep early most nights and caused him to linger longer in bed on some mornings. But beneath the laden feeling inside his joints was a small burst of energy. 

Danny stood next to him, holding Steve’s hand, gripping it with such tenderness, it made his chest ache.

“This is really nice. It’s kind of beautiful in a scary kind of way.” Danny squeezed Steve’s fingers. “Did it help at all?”

Feeling drained, Steve released a heavy breath, felt the air exhale from his lungs. “It…maybe. I can look at it now.”

“At your painting?” Danny glanced over, his eyes searching Steve’s face.

Steve made a sound in the back of his throat, it felt like a laugh. “At what I’ve been avoiding.”

***

Steve still dreamt of blood and tiny bodies, of an absolute feeling of loss. He woke up with his face wet, his body damp with sweat. 

Today was another time when he didn’t even want to crawl out of bed, but he somehow managed a shower and eat some oatmeal. He drank two cups of coffee as he considered his options. 

He walked toward the piece he’d stay up till two in the morning, lost in his brush strokes. It was another ocean scene, this time with a lot more skyline, a set of looming heavy clouds. Yet, when Steve looked at it, he felt detached from it, from the pain he’d felt the previous night.

While he stood there, needing every ounce of caffeine to remain awake, he knew that the painting had captured and contained a moment; a moment that was now in the past. 

Like his nightmares.

***

When Steve returned to Dr. Elliott’s office, he handed over his latest print.

“What do you think about this one, Steve?”

“I can look at it and realize it’s only a part of myself. I can paint it and walk away.”

***

By the twentieth painting, Steve included sandier beaches with native fauna, and an occasional sky. The colors were a little less tense, he added more yellow and white.

He struggled with perspective, proportions; landscapes made it easier to disguise such errors. But Steve understood the principles of psychology, understood that perhaps his creative outlet mirrored his inner self. He’d breached his own defenses.

His creativity was a part himself; he’d never acknowledged it was powerful.

He wiped at the moisture in the corners of his eyes, and once he started crying, he didn’t know how to stop.

Steve’s legs refused to carry his weight anymore and he sat heavily in the middle of the floor, holding his face between his hands, his body trembling from the release of grief. 

Despite Steve’s every effort, after four days of running his team ragged, he’d still been too late.

***

It’d been a long time since everyone was over for a picnic. Grace lay on the beach reading a book while Charlie built sandcastles beside her.

Danny stood beside Steve, keeping a watchful eye on both kids. “Here,” he said, handing Steve a beer.

Steve raised an eyebrow; Danny had been like a mother hen about Steve’s alcohol consumption with the meds he was on. 

“One beer won’t hurt,” Danny said. “The doc started reducing your dosage, yeah?”

Steve nodded, taking the beer and sipping it. 

“You know, I was thinking. That coffee shop you went to a couple of months ago showcases local artists….”

“I don’t know about that,” Steve said. 

“Your stuff is very good, babe. I think other people would appreciate it.”

Steve had begun another series a few weeks ago, paintings of Charlie and Grace playing on the beach. Of Tani trying to teach Junior how to paddleboard. Of Danny lying in a hammock, and when he played with his children. He wasn’t really good at people yet.

“I'd like to keep it private for now.” Steve had just started to accept what his art meant to him; he wasn’t ready to share it with others yet.

He looked over at the ocean, at the waves gently lapping the shore. At the peace at his fingertips.

Danny cleared his throat, his voice thick. “You know there isn’t a day that doesn’t go by when I don’t think, what if I hadn’t been in Jersey that week, what if….”

“Stop it.” Steve took Danny’s free hand, squeezing it. “If there’s anything that I’ve come to terms with from this is that there are some things you don’t have control over.” He wrapped his arm around Danny’s shoulders, rubbed a hand up and down his arm, leaning into him. “Sometimes we just have to let things go.”

***  
Occasionally in the middle of the night, Steve slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb his partner. Last month, Danny started spending the night during the weekdays, and bringing the kids over more and more.

Healing was a set of baby steps forward and sometimes a few giant steps back. When he felt the weight become heavy against his shoulders, Steve would retreat to his studio and pick up a brush.

He painted his surroundings, of landscapes and the people that he loved. 

Painting became a way to know himself through his pain and joy. In seeing his emotions, he could step away from them. They became his art, separate from himself. 

In essence, it set him free. 

***  
Fini-


End file.
